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Matthew is Mine	By : flagfish Category: +G to L > Hetalia: Axis Powers Views: 9688 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia, nor do I make any money from writing this story.

Chapter List
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The night before, it didn’t seem like things were going to wind up so badly.
There was a little holiday dinner, a little get-together over at Alfred’s place, and he generously allowed more or less free trips to his wine cellar, to his liquor cabinet, and also, more or less free shots from anything anyone else had brought along.
Busy in the kitchen, Matthew was carefully helping his brother prepare Jello shots, even though the both of them knew he would never try one, himself.
“Just one,”
Alfred had said, jokingly grabbing his brother from behind as he held one of the shots close to his mouth, dangerously close to tilting it in.
“Q—quit joking around,”
Matthew laughed, long fingers closing delicately around the glass as he returned it safely to its tray, “These are for the company.”
And you know I can’t hold my liquor.
“That’s right,” Alfred replied, smiling in return, “we wanna be sure we have enough.”
He lifted the tray and began to make his way out into the living room, Matthew at his heels and tentatively licking at the faint taste of liquor at his lip.
It was strong—even just that little bit—he could tell it was strong.
The last time he had had too much to drink was at TGI Friday’s, when they went to celebrate his birthday, and, not taking into account his low tolerance, he managed to get buzzed off a number of wine coolers.
It wasn’t pretty; he wound up sick in the bathroom (the washroom) for several hours after the fact, to Francis and Arthur’s vast astonishment.
“It really is too much for him,” Arthur had said, gazing curiously at the boy who really got sick off wine coolers.
Matthew didn’t drink again since then. He used to say that he didn’t like how it tasted, but eventually he grew weary of hearing others point out that you can’t taste the alcohol in wine coolers anyway.
Anyway, somehow, he could.
“You see this?”
Arthur said to Alfred, waving what looked like some kind of cookie in front of his face,
“this is better than anything you’ve got here. This here’s a Jaffa Cake.”
Alfred’s blue eyes followed the motion as Arthur waved it around.
“Is that so?” he asked with genuine curiosity, reaching forth to have a bite, but Arthur brought it quickly to his own mouth, chewing with triumph.
“Jerk,”
Alfred mumbled, looking away in irritation.
To Arthur this was vastly enjoyable, and he laughed heartily to himself as he mused philosophically on how much better his own snacks were compared with America’s.
He was already mentally partway through composing a speech on the inane drivel that was Hollywood cinema and American football, and the ridiculous way Alfred left the ‘h’ out when saying herb, when there came a loud crash from the general direction of the dining room.
Blushing furiously, there stood Toris and Felix, both gazing guiltily down at the broken remains of what once was a tray of wine glasses.
After several moments of petrified horror, the two delved to the floor to collect the pieces, apologizing awkwardly for the mess and the red stain on the rug—
“Haha—!”
Alfred laughed as he trotted across the room to help them out, “it’s—really, it’s all right. I’m used to England and Canada making a mess here all the time…”
He knelt down to help them collect the shards, attempting as best he can to appear lighthearted and charming as he shooed them off.
“There’s a whole other batch of wine glasses,” he murmured aloud to no one in particular, “up in the attic, Arthur, would you mind…”
But Arthur was on the other side of the room, watching with quiet amusement as the he worked at cleaning the mess. Rolling his eyes, Alfred placed the tray on the coffee table nearby and paced across the room, taking Arthur by the sleeve of his shirt as he continued briskly to the stairwell,
“Come on, help me out,” he said conclusively, having long since mentally assigned him the task, “I need help carrying down some stuff.”
Over in the living room, Francis and Ivan were fighting for dominance over a bottle of Grand Marnier.
“This is nothing,” Ivan informed the other boy, “this is what you have as a snack, this is dessert.”
Francis laughed. “Go on then,” he replied unaffected, “have your dessert.”
In mockery of good manners he then handed the bottle to Ivan, waiting expectantly and with vast amusement to see where this will go.
What followed was a drinking challenge of sorts, where, drink after drink, neither of them seemed particularly affected by even the hardest liquor.
“Bring in the shots!”
Ivan announced in Matthew’s general direction as he saw the boy carefully carrying the tray in from the kitchen, deliberately attentive not to drop it as Lithuania and Poland had before.
All the while, Arthur climbed the steps behind Alfred up to the attic, bemused as he followed along and cringing to himself in irritation as he gazed onto the utter mess that prevailed there, this isn’t how I raised you, he thought.
Then, he stopped in his tracks, outright upset.
“Alfred F. Jones…!” he cried out in anger, one finger pointing accusingly at a pile nearby. There lay the once-perfect set of wooden soldiers he had gifted to Alfred many years ago, once carefully crafted painstakingly by hand, each piece unique and different from its counterparts.
Lying broken, neglected, a timeless antique mistreated and abused—
“This is just so typical—!” he seethed.
Alfred hardly turned in his tracks, bent already over the box of wine glasses he came for and ignoring Arthur almost entirely.
“You’re making an awful lot of noise over there,” he mumbled with disinterest, “make yourself useful already and help me out.”
But Arthur didn’t budge.
“Just what is the meaning of this….!” He continued, “is this how you take care of your toys!”
At last, Alfred turned around, clearly annoyed.
“My what?” he asked, peering over in his general direction. He squinted a while, having long forgotten the wooden set.
His irritation turned to laughter then, “Haha—oh! You mean—you mean, those? Wow, I entirely forgot about those…”
This, of course, only made things worse.
“Why I ought to—! Why I ought to give you a proper spanking—! You’ve never had appreciation for things, America! It’s all…it’s all just plastic with you—”
“You sure are a piece of work,” Alfred sighed, irritated now, “here you go on about appreciation, but are you helping me out at all…? It isn’t easy throwing a party like this, you know…”
“I’ll give you appreciation,” Arthur seethed, now actually lunging forth at Alfred and smacking him in the face.
What followed was a long and cumbersome match of punching and kicking and hitting and scratching and pulling of hair, the wine goblets and wooden soldier set long forgotten as the two went at it across the dusty attic floor.
Downstairs, Francis and Ivan had Matthew seated awkwardly in their midst, the both of them already a bit buzzed now as they challenged one another to an unspoken competition of shots. Matthew had opted twice to get up and leave the tray to them, but, almost simultaneously, they pressed down on his shoulders,
“Stay.”
“What did you put in these shots?” Ivan laughed, “fruit juice?”
“Tequila, and rum…” Matthew smiled nervously, distinctly remembering the nauseating aroma as Alfred had brought one too close to his lips a few hours back.
“We’re not being very polite,” Ivan said to Francis, “Matthew went through all this trouble, and we’re drinking the whole thing…”
“Oh, haha, don’t worry about me,” the boy replied, and then, laughing to himself, Francis added,
“Matthew can’t hold his liquor anyway.”
“He can’t, can he,” Ivan laughed, eyebrows rising with amusement, “but there’s hardly anything in this at all…”
“Really, it’s—it’s fine—“
Matthew quickly replied, having no desire to drink anything again.
Ivan was holding him close now, strong arm paternal as it slid round the bony angle of his shoulder, and, grinning with infinite gentleness, he held the glass just at Matthew’s mouth.
“Just a little,” he said, “you made these yourself, you know there’s nothing bad in it.”
“I—“
Matthew parted his lips to speak, and, mere centimeters away, Ivan gazed as carefully he tilted the glass in.
Before he could cough or protest or gag, Ivan then seized his mouth, kissing him very slowly and holding him steadily in place until finally the boy swallowed.
He held on for several seconds more, Matthew’s long fingers brittle on his hand in weak protest before at last he was released. Then, staring weakly ahead, he brought his hands slowly to his mouth, astonished and traumatized as he admitted mentally that, really, this time it wasn’t so bad.
Ivan gazed triumphantly from his left, bursting with unspoken pride at the fact that, apparently, Francis merely didn’t know the proper way to handle young boys.
And one hell of a blow that was to France, who prided himself on exactly that.
“Well, Francis,” Ivan said with contentment as he reached for another shot for himself, “he seems to be handling it just fine.”
He turned to Canada then, “Isn’t that right,” he crooned, carefully wiping the boy’s lip with one large finger.
Francis seethed.
This, of course, meant war.
“Matthew,” he purred in dangerously affectionate tones, “how come you’re sitting all the way over there,” next to him.
“Well, I…”
Matthew trailed off, hand tracing absently at his lower lip where Ivan’s finger had stroked him moments before, but before he could say anything else, both of Francis’ long arms came around him as he drew him closer to himself.
Francis held him possessively, jealously, after all, he had quite a hand in raising this boy, it had been his place to teach him French and, if anything, it was his rightful place to teach him to drink. He kicked himself mentally for not doing so sooner, before Ivan had the chance.
So that wasn’t so painful when Russia did it, isn’t that right, he thought with annoyance as he reached again for the tray, well, just you wait, I’ll make you actually enjoy it.
Matthew’s eyes followed the shot glass as Francis lifted it from the tray and brought it closer to both of them. But, instead of putting it to Matthew’s lips, he brought it to his own. He quickly tipped it in, and then, motioning playfully with his finger, he beckoned the boy closer, arms caressing him gently as he began slowly to kiss him.
Matthew’s long, transparent eyelashes batted several times with innocent surrender as he allowed docilely for France to proceed, delicate and fragile in his grasp and infinitely vulnerable to the proficient advances of an expert.
The pink liquid of the drink trailed out the corner of his mouth, and Francis licked at it slowly, but, to his contentment, Matthew obediently swallowed the rest without a fight.
“That’s very nice,” Francis crooned, still holding Matthew very close as he released his lips.
If a number of wine coolers were enough to make him sick, then two shots of hard liquor—Jello or not—had certainly taken their toll. Matthew was now curiously numb, dizzy and quiet and flushed in the face as he leaned back of his own accord into Francis.
At this, of course, Francis beamed at Ivan with uninterrupted pride, long arms coming securely around the boy and holding him triumphantly to himself.
Ivan laughed.
“Neither of you can hold your liquor,” he concluded with amused tones, “you both look like you’re on the verge of collapse.”
He reached across the couch and slid his hand not behind Matthew’s head, but behind Francis. “One or two more and you’re finished,” he informed his counterpart.
“Ha!” Francis laughed, still cradling Canada as he allowed Ivan to proceed, curious to see where this will go.
Where this went is that Ivan brought another glass to Francis’ mouth, and, eyes darting to his lips, murmured, “open wide…”
Laughing, Francis did, but even before the full contents poured in, Ivan seized his mouth, holding his face steady with both hands. Francis actually resisted for a few moments before giving in, Ivan’s large hands steady and warm on his stubbled cheeks.
He laughed inwardly with amusement; the guy really was good.
Up in the attic, Arthur had Alfred beneath him on the floor. Straddling his waist victoriously with knees on both his sides, he laughed with diabolical satisfaction as he held hard to the boy’s wrists pinned above his head on the floor.
Really, it was a relief to them both, the both of them covered in bruises and scratches and cuts and breathing hard from the long struggle that lead up to this point.
“You’re weak, America…!”
Arthur concluded aloud, “You’re annoying and weak!”
Alfred gazed up, chest heaving and glasses hanging partway over the side of his face and hair a disheveled mess.
Silence.
“Kiss me,”
He suddenly said.
Silence.
Bewildered, Arthur gazed down, too astonished for words.
And then—
for some reason—
he did.
To be continued…
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Matthew is Mine